Whatever Happened to the Storks that Fly?
by cynevie
Summary: Julie goes out in search of the cure for boredom, Wilson finds out that Julie has been keeping a secret, and House lost a bet. [JulieWilson][WilsonHouse implied][Quite AU]
1. Chapter 1

Warnings/Dislaimers/Spoilers: I don't know much about the character 'Julie', and in the light of the second season, I'll stick a semi-AU label on this.

_Note: Written from Julie's POV, inspired by the great Julie-fic written by __aheartfulofyou. __ I tried to not write her as a Mary Sue... but it'll all depend on the readers, I suppose. So please tell me? I have a bad feeling that this isn't going to go down well with most readers, but hey... I'll bite. So... any comments and criticisms are greatly appreciated._

---

**Part 1.**

He sleeps next to her. She watches, memorizes, and ponders. There's a small smile on his lips and movements under his eyelids. The morning sun loves his curls. Soft, warm rays beckon him to a slow wakefulness. His fingers curl gently on the comforter and he sighs. She reaches across the bed and links her fingers with his, and smiles when he tightens his grip around her fingers. She watches as his eyelids flutter open, and finds herself amused by the way he surveys the world from beneath those sleep-laden eyelids.

He greets her with a scratchy _Hey, you_. It is a deep rumble from the back of his throat and she feels it reverberate in her ears; a half-whisper she barely heard. She likes to think that it is her he is greeting. She likes to think that at least in this bed, they carve a world of their own; and she is comforted by it. She likes to think that in this bed at least, he is hers -- before he slides out of bed and surrenders himself to the world outside and to everybody else. The world of her husband, she thinks, is a world she doesn't know.

She lies on her back, running her fingers over the empty side of the bed and memorizes the fading heat. She sighs and grabs her dressing gown from where it has fallen by the side of the bed and stalks out in search of coffee. _Or tea. Maybe tea today_. And she remembers that new box of camomile tea she bought. She turns on the radio and listens to traffic reports and the news. She listens to the radio DJ introducing a new single by some pop group and listen to the DJ rattling off trivias. Preparing breakfast is a mind-numbing affair, and she wishes there's a kid running around the house or a dog wagging its tail against her thigh.

The toaster pings and the slices of bread do a slight jump. The coffeemaker clicks, steam and scent floats across the ceiling of her kitchen. She peels an orange and places it in a bowl, next to the cherries, and pours yoghurt on top of it. She hears her husband prowling around the house and sees him stalk into the kitchen from the corner of her eye. He reaches around her for the toast and brushes against her arms and they stand there, staring at each other.

"Good morning," he says with a smile and she returns it with a peck on his cheek.

"Strawberry or peach preserve?" she asks, as she roots around the fridge.There's a rustle of newspaper pages, and a small _huh, what?_. "Strawberry or peach preserves?" she asks again, taking both jars out of the fridge.

"Uh... do we..." James looks up at her and places the newspaper down on his side of the table. "We still have that marmalade House gave us?" He joins her in front of the fridge and rummages around; sliding a cabbage this way, and the box of chocolate that way. Oh, how she remembers that particular marmalade, _Seville marmalade_, and she remembers why she hates it. She hates the bitter taste of it, and the hint of sweetness makes for little compensation.

"I don't know. If there's still some left, it should still be in the fridge." And she walks away, settles on the breakfast table with her bowl of fruits and yoghurts. She reads the newspaper upside down, and listens to James rummaging through the fridge. There's a sigh in frustration. The fridge door closes and she continues deciphering the words on the paper in front of her. A peach preserve slides into view. "No?" she asks, and he shakes his head.

"Must ask House for more," he tells her off-handedly, and she can't find an appropriate answer to that.

"So, I'm thinking... roast dinner," she says, studying his face for reactions, watching his finger tapping at the paper, watching his eyes tracing words. "For tonight. What do you think?" she asks.

"I don't know." He chews on a bit of toast.

"Overtime again?"

"I don't know," he says, turning another page.

"You'll call?" She looks down to scoop a spoonful of cherries and misses her husband's nod.

They spend the remaining time in silence. Her spoon clinks lightly against the bowl, the paper rustles, and the occasional clack as he chews his toast.

Soon, she'll have to get up to rinse her bowl. Soon, he'll fold his newspaper and go in search of his tie. She'll pick his plate and watch fine brown crumbs tumble into the bin. And she'll walk him to the front door and wave goodbye.

---

There is a deathly silence in the house when she closes the door behind her. She stands in the middle of the hallways staring at the floor underneath her feet, and everything swims into one single vision. The noises from the street squeeze their way in from between the gaps of the door. She can pick out Sandy piling her children into the car for school and ten-year old Troy asking for the second time of the day: _Why do I have to go to school?_. And she thinks that he sounds most endearing, his high-pitched whines dance merrily in her brain as she heads back into the kitchen.

Between wiping down surfaces, sweeping the floors, and watching birds from her kitchen window, she thinks how she can probably do chores with her eyes closed and one arm tied behind her back. Not that she's ever going to try it, _but it's a nice thought_. She makes her bed and thinks of the day ahead of her, and she ignores the shaft of light that greets her as he walks past her bedroom window.

---

She works three days a week, four hours a day, selling candies to children. She sometimes help herself to a mint ball or a licorice cube while waiting for the after-school rush. She revels in the happy laughters and the whiny bargains the children makes. She surrounds herself with the scent of chocolate, and the vision of pink, fluffy cotton candies, the array of mints, and fruity sweets.

The little bell attached to the top of the door tinkles, and her first customer walks in: a little boy with his mother running after him a few paces back. He has a silvery giggle as he zooms straight to the jellies. He is soon followed by more children who walk, or skip, or sprint, or jump through the doors. There are also crying children who smile when they behold the colorful displays and taste the sweet sensation in their mouth. She keeps a wicker basket next to her till and fill it with assorted sweets -- not too sweet, yet not too sour -- for the parents who deign to park themselves by her till and tell her stories of their children's day.

"My boy got suspended for a week," a mother would lament. "For punching a classmate."

"My daughter won the School Award," a proud father would tell her, pointing at a little girl who'd be shoveling marshmallows into a brown paper bag. "It's the third time in four years!"

"My son is having a puppy-love phase," another mother would say to her, a silly smile on her face. "Neighbor's girl. Seems rather nice, but I think he's too young for this kind of thing."

And time flies when you're having fun, they say: standing by the till greeting the children and memorizing their happy faces, gossiping aimlessly with the mothers and the fathers as they watch their kids run around the sweet shop, and waving them 'good bye, good day'. Four hours are up and she knocks on the manager's door to sign out.

Barry looks up to greet her as she pushes his door open. "Done for the day?" he asks her, standing up from his chair and taking her hand in his. He guides her the guest chair and she sits down gingerly. He checks his desk calendar and smiles, "Paycheck, right? How many hours do I owe you?"

"Thirteen. I did an extra hour yesterday," she supplies, brushing an imaginary lint off her skirt.

"That's right," he tells her, as he scribbles his signature on the check. "Here you go." And she folds the check in half before placing it in her purse.

Barry tempts her, with his boyish charm and a hint of southern accent flowing from an attractive, smiling lips. Today is no different. "How is Mrs Langley?" Barry asks her.

She can't stop herself from letting out a sigh of relief and a rather long chuckle. "Can you believe it? She's finally moving out!" She laughs and he laughs with her. Old Mrs Langley, the oldest busy-body alive, quite possibly put on earth to annoy the hell out of everybody around her. Almost everybody in the neighborhood believe that she'll outlive anyone and continue on harassing neighbors 'til kingdom come. It's a really great relief that the lure of Spanish coasts has finally got the better of her.

"Peace finally, eh?" he asks, sputtering in a full-belly laugh.

"Oh yes! You can't believe how noisy she can be! And how rude too! She's moving to Barcelona, I think."

"Heh, them Spanish boys'd do good to relocate elsewhere, then!" There's something in his stare that makes her feel uncomfortable, she looks down and fiddles with the hem of her skirt. "So..." he ventures, "what's the plan for the rest of the week?"

"I... I don't know, really. Why?"

"Uh," he scratches the back of his head, and she feels even more uncomfortable. "I know that you've already done your three days this week. But... I need somebody to cover for the weekend. Saturday morning." He sighs. "Sally's supposed to work that shift, but she said she has this exam study group thing."

"Sally?" 

"You've never met her. She's a sophomore, works weekends here."

"Oh..." 

"So?" He leans forward, tapping his thumb against the blotter on the desk.

"I don't know. I have to ask James. See if he has any... uh... you know, see if he has plans for the weekend or something." She shrugs, and slides the chair backwards. "I better go. Groceries, you know."

"Well, call me if you can do Saturday morning okay?" He reaches to open the door for her. She can see his unvoiced offer, beneath his gestures. It flows out of every pore of his body and seems to embrace her. It is evident from his body language, from the twinkle in his eyes, and the curl of his lips. She entertains the thoughts of men besotted by her, and she revels in the certain edge it provides her. And she tells herself that she can't care less about Barry -- the man; that she is merely interested in the illusion he provides.

She and Barry. They can spend time giggling at jokes. They talk about that doe-eyed kid that tried to wiggle an extra peppermint stick for free, or that adorable little girl who tries to talk herself out of homework by offering a piece of her blueberry gum to her mother. Sometimes, they'll sit down with an icecream cone from the dispenser by the window and laugh at the ice-cream moustache above her lip, and talk about his elderly aunt and the neighbor's dog who buries a bone in her garden. Everytime without fail though, she'll feel a little bit guilty. Because everytime she looks at Barry -- his smiles and his untold promises -- she falters a little bit more. Because she knows James loves her, in his own way.

Everytime though, she'll walk out of the door of the shop, eyes open and head held high. She'll walk out and trace her way back to her car. _Am I a bad person?_ she'll ask herself, but her car will always be silent, as silent as it has always been since the day she first bought it.

---

She walks into the house, arms full of groceries. She finds James in the living room, watching some news on television. "You're home early," she says, placing the paper bags by the couch.

"To pack, yeah," he answers distractedly. He turns around, links his arm around her shoulders, and kisses her on lightly on her cheek.

"Pack?" She doesn't understand, not really. Not even when she sees an overnight suitcase propped beside the door.

"A conference. New York. I... I'm sorry I didn't tell you before. Completely slipped out of my mind."

"You forgot," she says, almost like an afterthought. But she can feel venom and jealousy seep through with each word, and knows that James heard it too. Looking at his face, at the wince, and at the unvoiced apology, she wants to take it back. But she can't. _Won't_. Because she won't lie about jealousy and desperation. She wants to dress in her negligee and tempt him into not going. She wants to know why the hospital couldn't send anybody else instead of him. She wants to ask why he agreed to go. _I mean... he's been really busy, right? All the overtimes he's had to do... He doesn't really need more in his plate, right?_ She wants to ask a million things but settles with a whispered "How long?"

"Only until Sunday. I'll be home by dinnertime, I think," he kisses her cheek once again.

"Have you had lunch? Dinner? I can whip up a quick meal. When are you leaving?" She leaps onto her feet and gathers her groceries in her hand. "I bought fresh bagels and salmon. They're selling salmon at bargain price, you know," she babbles, rustling through the bags, and ticking off her purchases. "Or you can have some... salad? You _have_ to try the tomatoes. They're sweet and juicy. Or so said Mrs Tindall," she says. "Or..." His hand is heavy on hers, stopping her mid-babble and she realizes how upset she is. "You don't want to eat, do you?"

"No," he tells her and takes the bags from her.

With the weight lifted from her hands and transferred into the arms of her husband, she realizes another thing: she hates empty hands. She doesn't know what to _do_ with empty hands. She tries to slide her hands into pockets, but realizes that her skirt has not pockets. She tries to cross her arms across her chest, but finds it uncomfortable. She follows her husband into the kitchen, hands slack by the side of her body and finds it extremely uncomfortable also. She is nervous. In fact, 'nervous' is quite an inadequate word. Her nerves are doing starjumps, higher and quicker with every pulse. "You're not hungry?" she asks, needing to expel the nervous energy by doing something. Like talking, or walking, or rearranging the furniture.

"House'll be here any minute," James tell her. "We'll grab a bite on the way there." He's already taking stuff out of the bags and lining them on the worktop.

"Oh." _House,_ the man introduced himself when they first met, _Gregory House_, he said, _but call me House_. He is a friend of James's, or so she was told. _Bestfriends_. And she thinks it peculiar that James calls him House, and he calls him Wilson. And she feels awkward when House is there under her roof, drinking out of her china, and commenting on James's particular choice of wallpaper.

"Yeah." James voice beckons her from her musing and she fixes her gaze on James's fingers as he folds all the empty bags neatly and places it in the cupboard. "He's supposed to present a paper at the seminar, but I don't think he's got anything prepared yet. He's such a slob..." There's a small twinkle in his eyes as he chuckles. She tells herself that it must be the light, reflecting off his eyes. The light loves him, she thinks, and it dances around him like a halo. "He'll come up with something, no doubt. Or be his snarky self and get kicked out of the seminar, which is probably the more plausible scenario, actually, knowing him."

"Right." 

"I'm sorry."

"It's okay. You have a lot in your mind. You've been _busy_. I just wish you'd stop exerting yourself. You're working too hard." She collects the juice carton, the vegetables and fruits in her arms, and stalks toward the fridge.

He lunges to open the fridge door for her. "So... are you doing anything good this weekend?" he asks, as he plucks the juice carton out of her hands and places it in the side compartment.

"I'll probably go to Mabel's for lunch. You know, see her new baby and such. I'll probably end up staying overnight there, or something. I'll try to be home before dinner on Sunday. What do you want for dinner?" Maybe she should make that steak he likes so much, or maybe the casserole. "Oh, and Barry wants me to do the morning shift on Saturday."

There's a short silence, as they stock the fridge and freezer. "How 'bout you not cooking? How 'bout a dinner date instead?" he asks at last.

"On Sunday?" she places the last apple in the fruit compartment and closes the fridge door.

He nods. "I'll try to be home before five, then we'll decide where to. How's that sound?"

"Won't you be tired?"

"I don't know. We'll see."

---

If the thought of embracing each other ever crossed their mind as they stand in the hallway, they'll never know. James has his suitcase in one hand and a folder in another. She looks down and clenches her empty hands. She _hates_ empty hands. They stand there, face to face, ignoring the impatient honks coming from outside. And above the din, she can almost hear House screaming, "_Louder!_ He probably can't hear you!"

And James smiles and shakes his head. "Guess I better get going then," he tells her, opening the front door. "Are you trying to wake the dead?!" James half-hollered and half-jogged towards his friend.

"Just trying to heal the deaf," House answers. House is leaning against the side of the cab, aimlessly hitting the tyre nearest to him with his cane. This seems to annoy the cab driver who grumbles about paintworks and cripples or some such. "Hey," House greets her with a wave of his cane.

"Hey."

"That looks heavy," House observes James loading the suitcase into the trunk. "What's in there, you think?" House asks her, making casual chat. "Is it a body? Is anybody missing?"

"Nah. We don't carry them around. We bury them in the backyard," she replies. She grins and hopes that it is enough to hide the nervousness in her voice. "You'll keep an eye on him, won't you?" She asks. There's something of an amazement written all over House's face, but she doesn't know what.

"You see this?" House lifts his cane up in the air. "Gonna beat people off with it, don't you worry. I'll keep grubby hands off him."

"Thank you," she tells him, because it's the appropriate thing to say. She can also hear a snort of derision coming from her husband as he closes the trunk and makes his way towards them.

House nods and turns to speak to James. "So," he says, "ready to ride off into the sunset?" And she can't help but notice how decidedly uncomfortable her husband looks.

"Mm, yeah." And James places a small peck on her cheek and a chaste kiss on her lips. "See you on Saturday," he tells her. They remain close to each other for a second longer, sharing space and air, before she lets him go with a certain degree of reluctance.

"Call me," she implores; a whisper of hope as he releases her. He nods ever-so-slightly that it could've been the late afternoon sun playing 'True or False' with her brain.

"Aw, isn't that sweet?" House says. "The meter is still running, you know." He taps the ground with his cane and James steps away from her.

"James..." she calls out and her husband stops in mid-stride. She wants to tell him to stay, wants to beg him to not leave, wants to ask anything and nothing and prolong his leaving. But she settles for a half-whispered "take care" and hopes the wind will carry it to his ears. He nods again and piles into the backseat of the cab after House.

---

She stands by the window in her living room with the telephone in her hand, next to her ear. She can feel her heart pounding wildly, competing with the dialtone for the attention of her eardrums. She sighs loudly as she hears the phone being picked up from the other end.

"Barry? It's me... I can do Saturday morning... if... if you still want me to... No. Uh... he has this conference in New York, won't be back until late on Sunday... Okay, then. I'll see you Saturday morning... Okay... What? Nine thirty... Huh? No. Not a problem... Yes. Nine thirty, then. I'll see you Saturday... Okay... Bye..."

She watches the neighbor's son whizzing past on a tricycle, a golden retriever running alongside him, the father watching them with a proud smile on his face.

There's a surge of irrational jealousy and she throws the curtains close with enough force to yank a hook of the railing. _Huh. Old hook_, she tells herself. _Must tell James to get a new set when he gets home_. But something tells her that things aren't quite so right anymore. She throws herself onto James's recliner, his favorite piece of furniture. She really wants to throw it out, and has made her intentions known several times. Each time, he shoots her down -- going into a tirade, which is surprising as James is one of the mildest mannered man she has ever met. House likes to sit in that recliner too, she recalls. Every time House invites himself into their home, he'd sit in the recliner, all proud and straight-backed. Well, as straightbacked as he possibly can.

She decides that she'll make a sandwich for herself and watch one of those drama series that Mabel recommended to her. She leans back into the chair, admits to the nervous charge, and promptly fall asleep.

---

Morning light pries its way through the tiny slits between the curtains, knocks on her eyelids, and tells her that it is time for her to wake up. One by one her muscles make themselves known, every knot and every ache, punishing her for falling asleep in a recliner. Her stomach tells her how unhappy it is, deprived of its dinner the night before. Her neck refuses to bear the weight of her head, and makes itself perfectly clear by presenting a crick to surpass all cricks. She waits until she can sufficiently compose herself before rising up onto her feet.

She struggles to stand on her feet, rising with a difficulty reminiscent of House's own brief struggle whenever he picks himself out of this chair. Of course, he's had more practice in that front. But she has two good legs opposed to his one. She hobbles into the kitchen, riding the surreal tingling sensation of the last of the pins-and-needles. _Paresthesias something or other_, James calls it. _Fancy medical terms_, she thinks.

There's food in the fridge, there's cereal and milk, there's sandwich stuff to make sandwiches with, or she can always whip up an omelette or a pancake. She settles with an apple and decides that she'd climb into bed after. Properly, this time. And probably spend the whole day in bed, channel-surfing. The bedside clock tells her that it is ten in the morning. She digs through her bedside drawer and finds her address book. Maybe she can call a few friends and go out for a girly shopping trip. _When was the last time they have a proper girly day out?_ She flips through her address book and sighs heavily. Most of them are either working or with toddlers, most probably too busy to care about one very lonely friend. She sighs again. And once more for good measure.

She taps the receiver against her chin before dialing Mabel's number.

---

Mabel is a friend she's known for years on end, happily married with twice as many children. Mabel opens the front door for her and promptly hugs her.

"I'm not hassling you, am I? Thanks for putting me up, Mabel," she says, hugging her overnight bag close to her chest.

"No problem at all, darling. I have a guestroom with your name on it," Mabel tells her, ushering her in.

"Andy doesn't mind?"

"If he does, he won't say it. Unless he wants to sleep in the couch and change diapers into the next week." Mabel winks at her.

"How's the little angel?" she asks as Mabel leads her into the guestroom.

"Toby? He's fine. Cranky. But he's the quietest baby ever. So you don't have to worry about him waking you up at ass o'clock in the morning." 

"I don't mind, really." She places her bag by the guestroom door and follows Mabel back out and across the hallway into the nursery. Toby is fast asleep, looking every inch the adorable little baby. "He takes after you," she whispers. Mabel has her head tilted to one side, a small smile on her proud face. "You must be really proud."

"I am," Mabel whispers back. "_Really_. Probably the most fortunate mother in the face of the earth. But I'm biased," Mabel tells her.

"You have every right to be proud..." The baby is so serene in repose -- those rosy cheeks and the tiny body. Small, but perfectly formed.

"When are you going to have yours?" Mabel asks, as they tiptoe out of the nursery.

"I don't know. Soon maybe."

"What? Your husband doesn't want a child?"

"He _does_. At least I think he does. It's just... we never seem to... I don't know."

"Don't mind the mess," Mabel tells her as they enter the kitchen. "Viv's been trying to 'help' me bake cookies. Viv's school is having this bake sale tomorrow." The scent is unbelievable, drowning the senses with chocolate and warmth. "So what's stopping you?" Mabel asks, pouring a glass of water and sliding it across the kitchen worktop.

"Nothing, really." She sighs in defeat. This is always a very difficult subject for her to talk about, always something she tries to avoid, always something that makes her feel inadequate and uncomfortable. And she is entirely grateful when she sees that Mabel realizes how difficult it is for her. She looks around Mabel's kitchen, and feels seeds of envy hurling itself into her heart and taking root. It's warm and bright, with pictures that Viv -- Mabel's first child -- drew. Brightly colored toys strewn in one corner, and in Mabel's knitting basket. Papers covered in Viv's doodles, mixing with bills and papers. Flour on every surface, and utensils all over the floor, little hand prints... Adults and children, living in a coordinated chaos in a home.

"Anyway. 'd you like some cookie?" Mabel walks towards the oven and pulls out a tray of cookies.

"Are you sure you have enough?" she asks and Mabel laughs heartily.

"Don't worry. I have enough dough to feed the State!" And enough debris to warrant a hearty scrub of the kitchen.

---

They sit in the kitchen and talk about everything and nothing. Well, mostly Mabel gushing about Toby, about the little baby clothes and about little baby toys. Mabel gushes about Viv, too. About Viv's drama club and that Viv is going to play a sheep in this year's nativity play. They talk about neighbors. Mabel tells her that Viv is having this little 'tryst' with the neighbor's son; how they run around and 'flirt' the way only six-year olds can.

They talk and eat cookies and wait until Andy arrives with Viv hot on his heels.

"Mommy! Mommy!" Viv runs at Mabel, brandishing a picture she drew. "Look! I drew you and daddy and Toby!"Andy stands by the side, watching his wife and child admiring the picture.

He notices her, sitting on the kitchen stool and approaches her. "Hey," he calls out.

"Hey. How are you?"

"Good. I'm getting promoted! Anyway, where's James?" Andy snags a cookie from the plate. "You're staying with us for the weekend, right?"

"James is... away. A conference," she replies. "You don't mind me staying over, right?"

"Nah. As long as you can put up with little Toby's occasional screaming." Andy has a 'proud dad' look, and she wonders when she can see it on James's face.

"I don't mind, really."

"Yeah, it can get really lonely at home, I suppose," Andy observes. And she can't disagree with him. Her husband is away, there's no children or pets to keep her busy. Looking at Mabel, Viv, and Andy, and the baby in the nursery, she feels out of place. This is what she wants, this is what she yearns for -- a family life. But it seems like a pipe dream. Is it really this hard?

---

She retreats into the guestroom after helping Mabel wash the dishes and clean the kitchen. She can hear Mabel and Andy in the living room, watching a spot of television and playing with Viv and Toby.

Lying awake in silence, she can hear them talk, hear them laugh and bicker. The children's squealing and giggling sounds like music, painful to her ears and to her heart. She stares at the ceiling and watch shadows chase one another, creating a fantastically macabre dance. Her hand hovers above the cellphone she placed on her stomach, on top of the comforter. The bedside clock tells her it's just gone past nine at night and she contemplates calling James.

And she ends up listening to measured dialtones, ringing restlessly and monotoneously. She listens almost impatiently until the answering machine kicks in. She hears his voice, apologizing for not being able to come to the phone. But if she is to leave a message, he'll try and call her back. She feels tears prickling, and thinks it odd. Why would she cry? It doesn't make any sense. So she takes a deep breath, waits for the beep and talks into the receiver. "Hi, darling. It's me. Just wondering how you are..." And she presses the red 'off' button viciously and slams her palm onto her mouth as a strangled sob wrestles past her throat. This is a feeling she can't explain. It's not the first time her husband has gone to a conference, she tells herself. Nor would it be the last time, she concedes sorrowfully. Is she selfish this way? Husbands go to conferences every time, don't they? Or important meetings? Maybe she's not fit to be a wife.

She places her phone carefully on the bedside table and returns to counting shadows on the ceiling.

--tbc


	2. Chapter 2

_I'm interested in what anyone might think about Julie, personally, and what your personal opinion or take on the Julie!character, as seen (or unseen) on telly. This fic is written during season 1, and although we're now in Season 3 (which I haven't seen yet), I think I'm still going to finish this fic. Even if I have to slap a big bad AU tag onto it. g _

_Comments and criticisms on anything and everything are greatly appreciated! Thank you! g_

---

**Part 2.**

It's Sunday. James'll be back soon.

She observes her clothes -- strewn all over the bedroom floor, hanging from the doorknob, on the bed, spilling over from the cupboard. _Get a grip!_ she berates herself. It's _only_ a dinner date, and she's acting like a teenager on her first date. She remembers her first date: it was nothing compared to the nervousness she's feeling right now. She doesn't even know where James will be taking her for dinner. It could be a drive-thru, for all she know. Sighing, she folds back all the clothes, rehangs all her dresses, and returns them to their places. All she can do is wait.

And waiting is what she does, sitting in James's favorite recliner, orange juice in one hand and the latest copy of Reader's Digest in another. She reads it once from front cover to back cover. She goes to the kitchen and refills her juice. She sits back down and re-reads the whole book.She reads the advertisements and memorizes the jokes. Reads the whole thing again back to front, and back again until finally she throws it onto the coffee table and sighs loudly. She reaches for her knitting basket and continues knitting a small jumper for Viv. Halfway through the jumper, she decides to knit a pair of socks for herself and another pair for Mabel. She plans something to knit for James, but her fingers tell her that she has done enough knitting for the week. She looks at the clock and stares at the door. She wills him to come home, but alas he's not a psychic and she's just a lowly housewife.

It's _late_, she grumbles to herself. _Or early_, depending on how you squint at the clock. Dinner date promises came and went.

She closes her eyes and sighs. She's been doing a lot of sighing lately. Surely it can't be too healthy, can it? Just a nap. Then she'll call him. She hopes he's all right, hopes nothing bad happened. Her heart beats a little faster. Her body thrums and her vision swims. She struggles to walk towards the telephone as her world tilts this way and that way. She rides the waves of agitation and anxiety. _Take deep breaths_, she instructs herself, willing herself not to panic. Because 'no good is good news', because everything is all right. She's overanalyzing the situation. Because they'll call if something did happen.

_Call him!_ She stares at the phone in her her hand and her fingers shake badly as she tries to string a few numbers together.

Three rings and she hears his voice.

"James?" she asks. "Where are you?"

"I'm almost home," he tells her. "I'm just at the bottom of our road."

"Okay," she whispers. There's little tremors as she tells herself to relax. _He'll be home soon, he'll be safe. And that's the most important thing._ She overanalyzes things again, worrying about nothing. James is all right. And she replaces the receiver on the cradle and walks towards the front door. She checks herself in the hallway mirror. She straightens her clothes and combs her hair with her fingers. She can barely recognize herself, coming down from an anxious rush. _Over nothing_.

Light from her hallway spills onto the streets, and she can a see the cab driving up her way. She waits, restraining herself from running down the path and meeting her husband there by the side of the road. She waits as James climbs out of the back of the cab. Followed by House. She waits patiently as they unload their suitcases from the trunk of the cab. She waits patiently as they decide who should be paying. She shifts from foot to foot as the cab drives away and the two men walk towards her.

"Welcome home," she greets him.

"Thanks," James tells her, kissing her lightly on her lips. "I invited House to stay the night."

"Sure," she tells him. "I'll get the guestroom ready."

---

She spreads the sheets over the bed and listens to James lugging his suitcase into their bedroom. She wants to ask him why he's late, wants to ask him whether he's had anything to eat, whether he wants anything to eat. But she keeps her quiet and listens to him walk back into the living room. She smooths down the sheets and listens to him ordering some Chinese. She fluffs the pillows and listens to the two men talk and laugh. She can't perceive the words clearly, but she reckons that they're talking about the conference and some other medical issues.

Satisfied with the hospital corners at each end of the bed, she allows a small smile and lets herself out of the bedroom. She contemplates walking into the livingroom and listen in on the conversation -- something about septicaemea -- but decides against it.

She goes to bed alone, and sleep doesn't come easy. She spends the night listening to the unusually rough winds outside her window, whipping up a frenzy. The sound of leaves in the hard breeze reminds her of waves rolling onto a beach. Closing her eyes, she imagines herself lying on a sandy beach, counting the endless stars above her. She daren't open her eyes, for fear of reality, and she drifts off to sleep as she traces a constellation.

---

She wakes up alone; James's side of the bed still made and untouched. And she can't say that she's surprised. After a quick wash of her face and brush of her teeth, she goes out to find the two men, fast asleep in the living room. House sleeps in the recliner and James on the floor, his forehead propped against House's knee. There are empty takeaway boxes on the table. There are papers and printouts, pictures and graphs, charts and reports strewn all over the floor. A black pen leaks onto a blank piece of lined paper. A stray chopstick makes an oily stain on a graph.

She places her hand gently on James's shoulders and shakes him awake. He blinks and groans and presses his head on House's knee, trying to shield the morning light away from his eyes.

"Good morning," she tells him.

"Wh..." 

"Time to wake up," she says, "What do you want for breakfast?"

"Just orange juice," he tells her, trying to shake his sore muscles awake.

She nods and straightens up. "What does he want for breakfast?" she asks, referring to House, who is softly snoring the morning away.

"Just make him some toast. And jello."

"Jello? Okay. We have some of those." Because James _always_ buys them just in case House comes around. "Anything else?"

"Just coffee," he tells her, as he tries to shake House awake. House grunts in his sleep and nuzzles deeper into the recliner.

---

They sit around the breakfast table. Or rather House and James sitting around the breakfast table and she observing them. She grins at James's futile attempt to fend off House's incursion for a section of the newspaper. "You still have your section to finish," James admonishes, with the same tone he reserves for any of those toddlers of the Wilson-clan. She refills their coffee cups and sit at the far end of the table, writing a grocery list.

"I don't want to finish my section. It's talking about pterodactyls and dinobones they dug up. I'm a diagnostician. Not a prehistoric vet."

She looks up just in time to see James swatting House's hand away. "There's nothing in _this_ section either. Just some court hearing on medical trials. Nothing to interest a man who acts like a tactless caveman most days."

"_You're_ the one who enjoys the 'me Jane, you Batman'-type innuendoes," House accuses, before turning to her and pointing at James: "You should try that sometimes." She can only level her gaze with House and tries not to blush. Or grin. Or cringe.

"My sex life is none of your problem," James tells House. "And it's 'I, Tarzan. You, Jane'. Get your Disney characters right."

"Hey! Whatever rocks your superhero boat. And who says anything about any sex life?" House retorts. "Can I have more jello?" House asks her.

"It's in the fridge. Help yourself," she tells him and House really doesn't need to be told twice. "And can you get me an apple while you're there?" she asks him.

"Do you want me to rinse it for you, too?" House asks, head halfway inside the fridge.

"If you don't mind," she replies, collecting James's empty glass on her way to the sink. House lobs the apple at her, as he sits down in his chair. "Thanks," she tells him.

"Can you drive us to the hospital?" James pipes up and she turns around to look at him.

"Me?" she asks.

"You're the one with the car," James grins as he loops his tie. "I'll have to call the mechanics later today, see if my car's anywhere near ready."

"Sure, I'll just go get changed." She turns off the taps and wipes her hands dry. "Five minutes!" she hollers, as he makes her way into the bedroom.

In fact, she spends a good part of ten minutes and another five searching high and low for her car keys, only to find out that James has taken them with him. She finds them in her car, waiting for her, car engines already running. "Ready?" she asks, and receives nods and grumbles. "It's Monday again, isn't it?"

"House doesn't like it 'cause he's doing extra hours in the clinic today. For three _weeks_," James says, looking quite smug and pleased with himself.

"Rub it in some more and I'm withholding the marmalade."

"Hey! You're the one who lost the bet!"

She drives the car down the roads, watches other cars and other people, watches the trees whizz past, watches the clouds that march in the sky. She listens to the two men talk about Dr Cuddy, and the young doctors who works with House, and the new intern in the Oncology Department. She wonders what it's like to work full-time, have friends at work, have colleagues to gossip about, have interesting things to talk about and reminisce.

"Thanks," James tells her as she drops them off in front of the hospital. "Oh, and I bought something for you. I left it on my desk this morning. Hope you like." And she watches her husband disappear through the glass doors of the hospital. She drives home wondering what her husband might've bought for her from New York.

---

She cleans the house on Mondays. From top to bottom. It provides her with the numbing monotoneity that eats away the hours of boredom. James's little corner of the house is always the hardest to maneouver around. Tidy stacks of medical journals, binders of medical clippings, his numerous reference books and magazines cover most of the floor. She spots a pot of dead gladioli tucked in a corner, one she has never noticed before. She switches off the vacuum cleaner and props it by the cabinet. She picks the pot up and notices a yellow post-it note stuck to the side of the pot. She recognizes James's handwriting on it, followed by a series of 'conversations' that she finds amusing.

_  
- House, what's this?  
- Wanna bet? It's going to die in three weeks.   
- No it's not. What's the stake?  
- Three weeks worth of clinic.  
- You're on. What'll Cuddy say, though?  
- She'll deal._

There are dates scribbled at the bottom of the note. The plant survived three weeks and a day. Next to those dates are smaller squiggles.

_  
- Damn! --H  
- Damn right!_

---

She likes the sense of satisfaction of being able to sit back and admire her handywork -- sparkling windows and spotless floors. There's not much one can be proud of when one's a housewife, she thinks. She can't say that she had save a life by performing a life-saving operation, she can't brag about profit margins or getting a promotion. And there's really nothing to brag about working in a candy shop three times a week. She can't brag about raising beautiful children up either. But she has a clean and tidy house, one she is mighty proud about.

The 'something' James bought for her from New York turned out to be two 'somethings'. A necklace and a book of Rudolph Burckhardt's photography from MoMA. It's a pretty necklace, the kind one'd wear to functions and formal gatherings. The necklace will definitely gather dust. The book, though, is interesting and full of beautiful pictures. She loses herself in the black and white pictures of forties Astoria and Queens -- deserted roads and crumbling buildings, black and white romanticism of a haunted gas station. Then there are pictures of smiling children, playing on the roadside, climbing up cold debris. She traces their faces, their little hands and bodies clad in jackets and jumpers and hats. There are no pictures of adults around. Only the innocence of childhood and the a forsaken land, abandoned when all souls moved away. There are no images of adulthood and all of its attendant complications and drama. Conveniently scrubbed out, blotted out, ignored.

If only life is a series of photographs from which one can choose what to keep, what to forget, and what to destroy. If only one can preserve such things in memory or eliminate them altogether.

---

Days turn into weeks, and weeks turn into months, and she finds herself watching James dress for another day at work. It's Christmas Day today; not that they celebrate Christmas -- wrong religion and all. But James is never home for holidays, seldom home at any other day, She thinks of calling her mother. Maybe she can stay at her parents until the new year -- wait out the bitterest cold in Florida-- then return just in time for the first buds of spring. She thinks of calling, but then she'll have to endure a lot of 'I told you so'-s. She can't understand why Mother never like James.

She calls Mabel instead.

"Hello? _Viv! Stop it!_ Sorry about that," Mabel's voice filters through the receiver.

"It's okay... Merry Christmas, Mabel."

"Julie! Hey! How are you? _Andy! Could you please hang on to Viv for a sec?!_"

"Busy, huh?"

"Yeah, Andy's whole extended family's coming in... three hours. My parents are avoiding them like a plague. My house is really not big enough for the lot of 'em. Not only that, my oven's on strike. But, all in all. It's okay." Mabel laughs. Julie can hear the pots and pans clanging in the background. She can picture the kitchen, bright and sunny under the winter sun with the scent of roast and pie. "So, how can I help? James working overtime again?"

"Yeah."

"He's been doing that year in, year out. You've got to talk to him about it," Mabel tells her.

"We don't celebrate Christmas."

"It's not about the religion. It's the _holiday_, it's the having a holiday dinner _together_." Mabel can be the sound of reason sometimes, but this time Mabel just doesn't get it.

"He's out there saving people, Mabel. What if we're having dinner and there's this girl bleeding to death? His job is _important_."

"He's not the only doctor in that hospital, you know..." Mabel sighs.

"The other doctors have kids and family and... well..."

"Julie," Mabel cuts her mid-sentence. "This conversation is futile. We've been having this conversation year in, year out. You just won't listen." Toby, Mabel's youngest, is screaming in the background and Mabel sighs again. "Hang on. _Andy! Diapers!_" Julie can hear Andy's muffled grumbling and Mabel's laughter. "Anyway. Where were we? Oh yeah, why'dya call?"

"I need a favor," Julie whispers.

"Whoa, why the whispering?" Mabel whispers too.

"Sorry. Habit."

"It's okay. _Viv! Put your brother down!_ So, this favor of yours. Is it legal?"

---

Winter, Spring, Summer, Autumn. And suddenly it's winter again. She's busy cooking up a storm, for this time James actually took December 25th off. They're having dinner. James is poking his head inside the oven. "The cake's coming really nicely," he says. Chocolate-flavored steam bursts out of the oven, floating lazily towards the ceiling. It feels like home. She looks out of the window and marvel at the twinkling christmas lights and that Santa snowman the neighbor's children made.

"Can you do the glaze? Do you still remember how to?" she asks.

"Well... it's been a while," James roots around the kitchen for the chocolate bar and butter. "I think I've got it."

"Okay, just ask if you're not sure. I'll just be in the dining room setting the table, okay?"

He comes over and kisses her lightly on her cheek. "Don't worry, Mrs Wilson." He hugs her tightly and releases her. "You go do the table and I'll take care of the rest."

James has invited friends from work to come and have dinner with them. House and Dr Cuddy and three of House's team members.

Dr Cuddy is first to arrive. Julie always thinks that James's boss is very beautiful. "Am I early?" Dr Cuddy asks, as Julie hangs her coat and accepts the box of chocolate.

"No, no. Of course not. We're just waiting for the cake to bake." Julie looks down and cringes at her disshevelled look -- there's flour and food stains on her skirt. "Sorry. Didn't have time to change, yet." Julie sits her guest down by the fireplace. "Um... Can I get you anything, Dr Cuddy?"

"No, thank you. I'm all right for now. And please call me Lisa."

"Well, if there's nothing... I'll send James out. He's in the kitchen, making glaze for the cake..." Julie gestures towards the kitchen.

"Wilson? In the kitchen? _This_ I've got to see!" There's a mischievous twinkle in Dr Cud... Lisa's eyes and Julie can only follow Lisa into the kitchen.

Julie watches her husband greet Lisa and tells them she'll be in the bedroom changing into more appropriate clothes -- something less... stained.

---

She hears the front door being opened and closed; hears more voices, and can recognize House's voice above the din of "Hello, how are you"s. She can hear people complimenting James for the well-kept home and Julie feels a surge of pride. She's very proud of the way she keeps her home. Is pride a sin? There's not a lot that she's proud of. Maybe she's allowed this one indulgence.

There's a tentative knock on the door. "Julie? You ready?" And she can't seem to find the correct answer for the question. "You okay?" James asks again. He sounds concerned, somehow.

She settles by screaming "Just a second!" across the room.

She examines her reflection in the mirror. It's a new dress. She thinks it's appropriate for a house dinner party. The last thing she want is to embarrass James. She thinks about what Dr Cuddy -- _Lisa_ -- is wearing, and how Lisa looks. Lisa is very beautiful, and very composed, very well-mannered and well-presented. She looks intelligent too. _Well, she must be! She runs a hospital!_ Julie berates herself. All of the other must be too -- beautiful, or handsome, and very intelligent. House is a department head, like her husband. And House's team members are supposed to be the best next-generation doctors -- young, stylish, and very bright. She'll look out of place, won't she?

---

She is a spectator in her own home. She is the groundskeeper -- a maintainer of her husband's domain. She is more than that, of course -- her husband's wife, and hopefully her husband's child's mother. _Children_. But there seems to be little evidence of that at the moment. They talk amongst one another -- her husband and his friends -- about patients, office personnel, and office politics. They have intriguing stories to tell between them, and Julie is equally intrigued. This is the fascinating world of her husband, she thinks. She keeps a vigilant ear, waiting for the best time to offer them a slice of cake. Or maybe, she can just place a plate of cake in front of them and be done with it.

Dr Chase -- _Robert_ -- is delivering the punch-line to an Australian adventure story and a wave of laughter follows. She lets herself have a small chuckle, though she's not sure what the joke is about.

"Ummm..." she hesitates and shifts on her feet. Six heads turn to face her, their facial muscles still arranged in a jovial manner. "Um... are you ready for dessert? It's a chocolate bundt cake. Nothing fancy..." She satisfies herself with six concerted nods.

"Bourbon?" House asks, gesturing at his plate of cake and she grins widely. "Good woman," he tells her.

"How's the glaze?" James asks his colleagues. "It's been a while since I made one."

"You made this?"

"It's all his doing, Dr Foreman," Julie says, beaming happily.

"It's Eric," Dr Foreman tells her. "Damn, I didn't know you can cook! You must be very proud of him, Mrs Wilson."

"Hey! I _can_ cook." James is a picture of righteous indignation, and Julie is reminded of the James she often see between the pages of his childhood photograph albums.

"With scientific accuracy, I bet," Allison offers her two cents around a mouthful of cake. "Cooking is more than just accurate measurements, you know... And by the way, the cake is _wonderful_." Julie decides she likes Allison Cameron, just for the sake of it.

They eat cake; drink beer and wine. And all too soon she finds herself handing coats and scarves, waving goodbye and wishing safe journeys at four retreating backs. Arms snake around her waist and a chin rests on her shoulder. "James?" she asks. And she notices the jacket-coated arms, and the brush of James's wool scarf against the back of her neck. "You're going out?"

"I have to drive House home. He's too drunk," he whispers in her ear. "Don't wait up."

"Hey! Wilson! I can still drive," House calls out as he hobbles towards them. "Why don't you spend the night of festivities with the missus?"

"N... No, that's okay. We really don't want to spend the night of festivities bailing you out of jail," she tells House.

"I'm still sober, I can assure you."

"You drank us out of our house and home." James helps House into his coat. "What if they ask you to walk the straight yellow line?"

"You know that's not a nice thing to say to a gimp." House whacks the back of James's knee with his cane.

"_Ow!_ I'm still driving you home. Keys." James gestures impatiently.

"How are _you_ getting home after?" House asks, extracting his car keys out of his pocket.

"I'll stay over. We'll drive to work from yours," James replies, fastening the top button of House's jacket. "Come on, then."

She stands on the welcome mat of her home, watching James lead House towards the car. She feels a renewed sense of despair, and she tries not to dwell on it too much. Husbands don't need to tell their wives what they want to do, or ask any permission for anything. But the fact that James drives away with House, to stay overnight at _House's_, without even asking what she thinks about it... What is supposed to happen anyway? Is it normal, or is it not? She's not good at this marriage game. Not really.

She can't blame it on James, can she? Because she's _far_ from perfect. She knows it, because she's been told time and again by a lot of people.

She's the youngest child, the only daughter. Her parents think the world of her. Her four brothers treated her like she's made from spun glass. They'll die for her -- all she has to do is ask. They'll jump off cliffs by her say-so, and she knows it. They'll ask her opinion on just about everything. They'll placate her anger with beautifully-crafted words and allay her fears with carefully-weaved endearments. But they are also far away from where she is, and they'll lecture her with 'told-you-so's. And she is not in a mood to be lectured at.

She _must_ learn how to deal with these situations. She has _got_ to learn how to. She desperately needs somebody to guide her through her days, explain to her these oddly-shaped holes in her heart. She wants somebody to be standing next to her, telling her that she's doing all right, or helping her clean any mess left lying about. But there won't be such people, there won't be such reprieve. Only herself, her thoughts, and her resolve. She _knows_ that she has to grow up one day. But, by goodness, it is a hard thing to do.

She cleans the house, clears the rubbish, scrubs the kitchen, and vacuums the house from top to bottom. She polishes her silverware and glassware, and stores them safely for another day. _Don't wait up_, James told her. But after everything that she's done -- putting the house back into the order Mother would be very proud of -- she finds herself in the recliner, sitting in the same place recently vacated by House. _Don't wait up_, James told her. But after everything, she finds herself watching the rise of the morning sun and the unfolding of a bruised sky.

---

She's in the shower and James is getting ready for another day at work. James bought the wrong shampoo again. Her hair will make her pay for it, she's sure about it. She'll have to stop by the store to get the correct one. There's a phonecall and she shouts for James to answer it.

"Julie," James calls from the other side of the door, and knocks impatiently. "It's for you."

"Who is it?" She rinses her hair quickly, and waters the rest of the suds into the drain.

"St Francis." James turns the knob and pushes the door open. Julie shivers involuntarily as cold air pushes in through the steam around her.

"Who?" Wrapping her hair in a towel, she checks her figure on the fogged up mirror as she pads towards the door.

"St Francis Medical Center." James tells her as he hands her bathrobe over.

"_OH!_" And she can't get to the phone quick enough. And the puzzlement on James face can be termed as hilarious, if she doesn't know that there's going to be some serious questioning from him later.

And the questions came, as she replaced the phone in its cradle, next to the bed. "What's wrong?" he asks, grabbing his tie and walking out of the bedroom. There's a tinge of concern in his voice, and she smiles involuntarily at that.

"Nothing's wrong." She follows him into the kitchen; watches him pour a cup of coffee. She inhales and her throat constricts. "It's just..." _What would he say?_ "They agree to employ me."

"Employ you?" James refills his coffee cup. "Employ you as..."

"A nurse," she retorts, and maybe she has just yanked the fridge door harder than she would've liked. And she doesn't like the way her hands tremble either. Should she have discussed this with James -- this whole 'embarking of a new career' initiative? What if James disagrees and tells her to forget about it? She grabs a pot of yoghurt and tries very hard not to slam the fridge door. The fact that it slams harder than usual is _definitely_ not because of the lack of trying on her part.

"A nurse," she tells him again. "I took the course years and years back. I was a nurse for a couple of years, maybe more. I can't remember." She shrugs and peels the lid off the pot. There's an errant piece of blueberry bobbing in the thick white liquid. "But I didn't need to work, did I? Not at that time, anyway. Mother told me not to work. Told me to find a husband and get married, have kids, give her grandkids..." She fishes the blueberry with her finger and pops it in her mouth. "You and I? We dated. I allowed my licence to expire. We got married. Now, I found the reason to retake the exam. And Mabel's cousin works at St Francis." She plucks a teaspoon from the dishwasher. "It'll be good for me. Flexible shifts, something to distract me when I'm not working at Barry's or when you're working overnights. It'll keep me busy, keep me sane." She scoops a big, gelatinous spoonful. "If you want... you know... I can always coordinate my times with you, do the same overnights, um..."

"Okay," he tells her, as he places the empty cup upside down in the dishwasher. "When will you start?"

"I don't know yet... They asked me to... um... turn up today to do... well, fill in some forms and such, really... Um... Do you think it's a good idea? You know, me working? Mother is not very happy with my decision... What about you?"

"I bet your mother is going to blame me for this." James sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. There's an uneasy silence -- a common occurance in their household of late. "It's all up to you," he says at last, as he loops his tie and heads out. "Right. Off to work for me," he says with a tight smile and a backward glance. "And you too, I suppose. Bye."

"Bye... Have a good day at work." She stays rooted on her spot. She listens to his footfalls, to the front door being opened and closed, to James starting his car and driving away.

--tbc


End file.
